Christmas Wishes from the Potters
by fanfic n00b
Summary: Lily, James, and Harry return from a terrible tea with the Dursleys and settle a bet. Lily thinks this year's Christmas card will be particularly entertaining as a result.


"So, that was Tuney. And her horrible walrus of a husband. And Harry's little cousin," said Lily.

She opened the door to the Dursleys' garden shed, where she had secreted a pair of highly polished Nimbus broomsticks an hour ago. She wiped a few cobwebs off her arms, took one broom over each shoulder, and shut the door. The mild November day was lengthening into a cool, prematurely dark afternoon.

"They weren't that bad," offered James.

She raised her eyebrows at him. "We're out of earshot now. You don't have to be polite."

Baby Harry, held snug against James' chest, was watching her curiously, tracking her with green eyes, facsimiles of her own. She bent down and kissed his forehead as James shifted his weight. Lily found the sight of her two boys very difficult to resist.

"Alright, they were a bit..." James trailed off.

"Awful? Nightmarish? Come on, Jim, you're a master of clever insults. I can scarcely believe Vernon Dursley has you at a loss for words."

She led him out onto the overly-manicured lawn, where their launch would be a little easier.

"I only wish I hadn't been cursed last night," he said. "I'm sure I look a fright with this black eye."

She looked appraisingly at him and winced. "You do look like you just came out of a pub brawl."

She pulled a stoppered vial of dittany from a fine gold chain around her neck and dabbed some of the clear liquid across his face.

"It's coming along, though. Let's give it twenty-four hours before we decide to ship you off to Saint Mungo's." She kissed the spot for good measure. "Mostly because I like having you around the house."

She met his eyes and a flood of unspoken things passed between them. His frequent absences on Order business, her anxiety when she did not hear from him, her vague longing to be more useful and her frustration at being left behind since Harry was born. There were no days off from the Order. But occasionally, there were moments, like today, when they felt almost like a normal family. _Well, as normal as any family that flies around on broomsticks with an infant,_ she thought.

"Alright, yes, they are terrible," James confessed. "But they're already called _Dursley_. What a dismal surname."

She chuckled appreciatively.

The real purpose of their trip was not, in fact, to catch up with the Dursleys, but to cast a few surreptitious, protective charms over them. Muggle murders were becoming increasingly common and James had agreed it was worth the trip, even when his wife warned him that her relatives didn't care for wizards. They had cast their charms without breathing a word of it to Petunia. Lily thought it best that the Dursleys did not know.

"So? How did I do? Do I win the bet? Did I act like a Muggle for the whole tea?" asked James.

"You nearly did. But you asked far too many questions about their fondue pot, love. It gave you away completely."

"Well, it looks like a medieval torture device, doesn't it? All those little tiny forks. Looked like something I saw in Filch's office years ago."

She chuckled again. "You did lose, though. I expect full remuneration for this wager when we return."

"Are you really the most impartial judge, Lily Potter? I think you have a vested interest in my losing." He quirked an eyebrow at her, which had the effect of tilting his glasses endearingly askew on his face.

"It's true. But I never said I was impartial," she said.

She tightened the straps of the little fabric get-up that secured Harry to her husband's chest. James had devised the thing as a means to transport Harry while they rode their brooms, since it was impossible to Apparate with a baby. Although it had buckles and straps, a Muggle car seat this was not.

"Strapped in properly?" he asked.

"Yep," she said.

Predictably, James insisted that she ride the better of his two brooms. They took off together as the sun set over the patchwork gardens of Little Whinging. They flew parallel to one another and rose above the clouds. A vee of geese passed so close that she could hear them honking.

Lily stretched out her arms and felt the wind flow under and across her. Flying on this broom lifted her spirits and kicked off an endorphin high that almost, _almost_ made her forget about the dysfunctional tea with the Dursleys, the recent deaths of Fabian and Gideon Prewitt, and the fact that a genocidal dark wizard was out there somewhere, plotting against everyone she loved.

She sighed. James jerked his head at her.

"Go on. Get up on your broom. I can tell you want to," he said. "I'll spot you."

"You've got Harry," she countered.

"I can watch both of you at the same time."

He said it so matter-of-factly, Lily thought. There was hardly any cocky, fifteen-year-old James Potter left in there. Instead there was confident, grown-up James Potter, who often sounded a little melancholy these days because he hated, _hated,_ the suspicion and whispered accusations of wartime. James had never been a Pollyanna – he knew better than most what their adversary was capable of – but he could not abide the idea that any of his friends would turn against each other. He loved fiercely and eternally. Lily's heart ached for him. And she wanted to make him smile.

"Alright," she said.

"Watch your Mum," James said to Harry, turning him slightly to face her. "I taught her this trick."

One of the many nice things about having a marauding, daredevil, dyed-in-the-wool Gryffindor for a husband was that he never said "stop" or "don't." Really, she was surprised he wasn't encouraging her to do cartwheels on her broom.

She shifted her weight forward, brought her feet onto the broom handle, and slowly stood up, balancing on her feet alone, as if she was riding a surfboard. Her dragon-hide boots were sturdy and steady. She threw her arms wide again and exhaled completely for the first time in months. She loved flying. She had always loved flying. Not in the athletic, competitive way James did, but as an act of exaltation, ecstasy, release.

"It's more aerodynamic if you do this," he said, demonstrating a flat-handed pose with his own arms.

She copied him. "Hmm. It is," she agreed. "My dear, if you had been born a Muggle, you would have been an engineer. Or a pilot."

"I don't know what those are," he said.

"I know. And I still don't know what the hell Babbity Rabbity and her cackling stump is," she said. "But I've heard you telling Harry about it."

He sniggered.

As the sun set, its light refracted through the clouds, casting a pink glow on all three of them. A few low-flying aircraft descended into Heathrow. Harry fell asleep somewhere above the twinkling orange lights of Northampton.

* * *

Later that evening, Lily untangled a long strand of twinkling tinsel and sang along to David Bowie's _Heroes_ for the third time in a row. She had wrapped Harry in a sling across her chest and she periodically leaned down to brush his messy black hair to one side. Evidently, her kiddo had inherited James' unruly hair and awkwardly placed cowlicks. His hair would probably always stick up at the back. But it was awfully cute. Just as it was on the grown-up model.

The cat wove between Lily's ankles as she lifted another Christmas ornament out of its box and handed it to Harry.

The large stag in the middle of the living room snorted and shook his head, jingling the brass and silver bells she had carefully hung upon his antlers.

"Don't look at me like that," Lily said. "You said that if I won the bet, I could dress up Prongs for the Christmas card. What kind of wife would I be if I didn't follow through?"

He made a face at her that no natural deer could make, and she giggled softly through her nose. Still swaying to the music, she helped Harry hang an iridescent, candy-red ball on her husband's festive antlers.

"It's a shame Padfoot can't turn into a lamb or a lion. You'd make a lovely tableau."

She sighed.

"I'm becoming one of those bored housewives who are obsessed with_ crafts_," she said. "Stop me before I macrame an outfit for Harry, yeah?" The stag snorted again, and this time it sounded almost like a laugh.

She set the camera on its tripod, stood next to Prongs, and waved her wand at the button.

The flash popped and the family was forever recorded in an absurd Christmas greeting card - Lily, Harry, and a reindeer bedecked in ornaments and fairy lights. Of course, only a few people would know that the "reindeer" was actually James, but that was what made it especially funny to Lily.

She gave thanks that she had not lost her sense of humor yet. Humor was one of the slim threads still holding her world together.

Prongs looked up at her with soulful, dark eyes.

"Yes, it's over. You can change back," she said, scratching him behind his velvet ears with one hand and bouncing Harry on her hip.

He transformed athletically, swiftly, the way he did most things. One moment there was a snuffling stag and the next there was a very lovely husband with a very nice backside.

"Ugh, my hair is full of tinsel," he said.

"Oh, poor you, and your pretty hair," she teased, kissing his neck.

"There's that snarky witch I fell in love with," he said. "The one who used to smoke shitty fags behind the Three Broomsticks and call me an arrogant toerag."

"You were never really a toerag, though," she said.

"Oh, don't rewrite history, love. I was a berk. But I'm better now. Because of you. And Harry."

"Yes, he is very good at bringing out the best in us."

And this was true.

Harry. Her poorly-timed but no less loved kiddo. Harry, Little H, Hal. Lily and James were connoisseurs of nicknames and had already bestowed well over three dozen on their son. It was a competitive sport for them. They had spent years inventing epithets for each other:

_Lily, Lil, Lils, Lilylove, Evans, Ginger, Hey You, Wench, Red, Bambi, Lilith, Mrs. Potter, Mum._

_James, Jim, J, Potter, Prongs, Posh Arse, Pops, Troublemaker-in-Chief, Don't-Touch-the-Hair, Daddy._

James leaned against the bookshelf while picking more ornaments off his clothing. Lily walked in halting circles around him, untwisting strings of fairy lights and garlands. Once in a while, she trailed her hand along the waistband of his trousers on the pretense of de-decorating him. In truth, she wanted to press him against the wall and get started on a little sister for Harry as soon as possible.

"Why do we still have this?" he asked, pulling a fat, battered school book off the top shelf.

"James Potter, are you reading books just for fun now?"

"I _read_. I always have. I'm extremely well-read. Lest ye forget, top marks in every subject always went to you, me, or Padfoot."

"Or Remus or Severus."

He buckled a little at the mention of his ex-rival. Her ex-best friend.

"Alright, sometimes, yes, I'll grant you that," he said. "But never in the fun subjects."

"And with your myriad pranks and detentions, you managed to lose just as many house points as you earned by your academic merits."

"Snarky, snarky wife," he tutted.

She stuck her tongue out at him, which he apparently decided was an invitation for a wet kiss on the mouth. Her eyes fluttered appreciatively as his hands found the top of her thigh. Harry peeped disagreeably as they pressed together. _Harry, you're such a prude_, she thought.

"Be that as it may," James continued, disengaging his lips from hers, "why are we keeping fifth-year textbooks in the sitting room?"

"Because they are useful."

"What. This one? Irving Goshawk? The one that thinks banishing a banshee is as simple as-"

"Not Goshawk. The notes. In the margins. I like having them. I – actually – when this is over... I should just tell you."

"What?"

"I'm going to teach, I think."

"Really?"

"Yes."

He grinned at her. "What subject?" She knew he already knew the answer.

"Take a wild guess," she said, indulging him.

"Are the rumor mills telling the truth this time? Is the old Slug finally retiring?"

"Bingo."

"Brilliant. That's adorable. You're adorable," he said.

He nuzzled her neck and started massaging her shoulders.

"My wife the Potions professor. We could live in Hogsmeade. Harry would have an endless supply of teenage babysitters."

"He would."

"Only one problem, though. All the boys will fall in love with you. And they'll cause loads of property damage trying to impress you. Cauldrons will explode. Hearts will be broken."

"Perhaps I'll affect a vicious personality that intimidates them," she mused.

He shook his head. "No good. You're dead sexy when you're cross. Why d'you think I kept asking you out when I knew you'd say no?"

"Hmm. That's something to consider. Maybe I'll wear a frumpy jumper and borrow your glasses," she said, taking them off his nose and putting them on.

"Merlin, no, that's even more adorable. Can you do your hair up like Madam Pince?"

She piled her auburn hair on her head and made a very serious face.

"Thanks," said James. "I will treasure this image. When I'm alone and randy. Though it is, I must admit, rather blurry. Can I have those back, please?"

She obliged.

"Thanks, _Professor_," he said, with a seductive half-smirk. He was having way too much fun with this hot-for-teacher thing, Lily thought. "What are we writing on this Christmas card, anyway?" he asked.

"I dunno. 'Christmas wishes from the Potters.'"

"No puns? 'Our deer-est wishes,' perhaps?"

"I'll leave the wordsmithing to you. Are you making dinner or shall I?"

"I'll knock something up," he said. "I never get to anymore."

Harry inhaled a shuddering breath and started to cry. Lily took him out of the sling and looked appraisingly at him. She had limited experience with babies, but on the whole, she judged him to be a pretty cool customer. He even cried in a somewhat apologetic way.

"That's the hungry face," said James, who was rifling though the cupboards.

"No, it's the sleepy face," Lily said.

"Trust me. Hungry," he said.

"Want to put five galleons on it?"

"I'll do you one better. Loser does the washing up."

"Done."

She settled in the rocking chair and unbuttoned her blouse.

"Damn," she whinged, as Harry confirmed his father's theory by nursing eagerly.

Harry stared up at her with bottomless green eyes. Sated. With one chubby foot in the air. She felt incandescently happy.

With her free hand, Lily picked up the Goshawk book again and flipped through her notes.

Some of the notes were written in a cramped, masculine hand that was not hers. These additions, of course, were Sev's.

Although his handwriting alone did not evoke much feeling in her, the combination of handwriting, maternal hormones, and the intermingled smells of new baby and old books did have a rather wistful effect. Her brows knit together in the ghost of a frown.

She had called Severus a "creepy fucking psychopath" to his face on the last train home from Hogwarts, at the end of seventh year. To be fair, he had said far worse things to her, as she knew they both remembered vividly. Still, the memory of that final verbal wound made her cringe.

Thing was, she knew he wasn't a psychopath. A pretentious, misguided, profoundly disappointing, hypocritical bastard, yes, but not a psychopath. A psychopath doesn't bring over home-brewed cough potion when you get dragon pox and your Muggle parents have no clue how to help you. But Severus had done, when Lily was fifteen and on death's doorstep. She could still remember his face then, wobbling between worry and relief as her fever broke. Those dark eyes trained intensely on her, as if his own life hung in the balance. No, he was not a psychopath. Regardless of how much he may or may not have hoped to get into her knickers. Which she had not realized at the time.

It would have been a stretch of the imagination to say that she still believed him a _good_ person. But she did believe him an _honorable _person. Or something like it.

The right series of events could probably resurrect his moral feeling, she mused.

Silently, she wished for whatever catalyst would bring him back, would return him to the right side, where his considerable talent and brainpower would be of use, because the Order sorely needed it. Particularly after the loss of the Prewitts. And particularly while she herself was busy with her small son.

_Come back_, she thought as James simmered a batch of "Potter's Patented Pretty-Decent Punjabi Prawn Curry" and Lily's nose tingled with turmeric. _Come back to the right side. _

* * *

Lily's wish came true within hours.

As she fed Harry little nibbles of treacle tart, Severus waited for Dumbledore on a wild hilltop, wringing his hands like a madman. He could still hear the homicidal proclamation of his master echoing in his ears. _Not her. Not HER, _he thought.

Across an ocean of estrangement and bitterness, she thought of him and he thought of her and in that moment they wished for similar things. It was the first time in four years that their hopes had anything in common.

The next day, all three Potters went into hiding.


End file.
